PS 3537 
.W655 W5 


1924 


LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
































* • o 



V > 

* ' 

* vv 

e A ''V l 

' * sJ Cp- O 

rV *1 * 



f . o 

. A A . 





*> v' V . 

: \A : * 

: j>. \ \ 

'•*' A , ' r '%> '“•** C <L ^ 9 , ’• 

\ O' A o'.’ 

. ° 



VL . v 

: o^ v 


A °^ 



% <*l 

* ^ A * 

; ^ v 3 

• aV** ^ 

■’.'VW ^ + 

"o . t < A 

o A v .• 

% v* • 





_A' ,.<>*«„ 



A- 0 ►' 

LoA * 

;* Jr &K °y^VV ^ ^ • 

♦ ^ r cr t * i ‘*« *o <y c°* °- <*> 

. v* cr * * *o iA ° «rSSIUA* ^ 







A o. 

A - 

%.^oVo^ o- 

».R5! • ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ . 

• * A* V -f.T- A "V A> 'V •;; 

*> v • l JJ! * *^o .A c 0 "®* *<jl * A l -«. *■£> 



CL, v 

.. °^ *«"°° 

„ S VV% C> t (y * r * „ - . 

^ *. A A 4wA A A .‘‘ 

- x? w • 

,v^xk.* v> v *v 'liir- * 

■'f.?** ,<\^ ^ -!S#M* A” ^ • 

> <,°“°. "*<9 

j -T ,* ‘ 



XO. • w 

■a. wo o 

N v --V - ‘^*'iv\v : 0 > ' £ 

v. -v ,... ^ 0M0 _f° 



CL .. 

' \ ,/■ 


; - ■ 
-.. ,V <#U •'«”& v \* V L* V 

• X/ ° • * * A ^ + 

" * C° ^ W J>> 0 , Ay o»-- 4 % 

• - t “d ? Lv*' « 

9 ^ v * 

° i° vl > • 4 

,o X ‘T^f.* A 

^ "' .A 


L. ^ 









V * 


/ 


' A 

^ " -A... ***'» 5 

e ^-_ asP * ^ 

•♦ A °L oWw.* A”V j #aPs > ‘ i a a t 

4, yinr*-^ <xy ^ • ^Sryfr * A 

a^ 'o t k * A " *, *^wwr'> Ay ^* 

r / A 1^4. °o A* ^ 

- 0 / o' ^ v - 

0 A v\ *■' 

• .9 L. .K - .VIFS^" - 





o. . 0 ^" .t*o ,\ v .. 

*. ^ ♦ V f K\^i^/>L 0 ^ .A ^ 




* '-^v aV 

v Pk *■ 

* ^ ♦ 

r ^ V ■» 

* ^ ^ * 



0 No 


<» '••*• ,& v '■>..* a ^ *y;vT' .<& 

<$> q\ * *• 1 • * ^o *4> c ° * o * /Of ,1 1 






* v ?\. . ^ * 
w <P, 4 ^ 

• <** CT 

* V* ^ 

«V ° *-vT’ a? V *..’•* A 

* lif ^ ^ ^ *** 

^9, *'«.>** A <. **5tv£' .0^ ^ 

, •■•* * A) Ay c 0 W 0 -» A* cr • c ' * ♦ v ^o V& v c o *• 

* ° .4* /^SShC. •v , 0 t'ptiMzg* ° / .1 j 

* rtf <**> o, 


r o. -o'. * * A 



*b v* : 


^cy 


1^ <JL^ «* 1 


• N 0 


. - 0*' ft 0 if- <s> ^ 0 V 

‘ • » 0 A 0 ^ " ’ A> v ^ 

<y f> * • e, ^ V »y / G^ <? 

i» Ar »’lf(\ < %^/k P A& • -i-ft £ 

**$ :mm* «** :MSk'- ?** 

V**. ,<5> ^ oV^civy^o aV«* 


V' 


^ •*. 




;* .# <V v 

'• 1 ‘ .4> 

0_ A .°r^x % <£ .0’ * 

' ^ 0 ^ ' 


* 4 o. * 


*" 1 • *1 



. «u-«T '*' 

o \° v*. -a5 ^ 

°^ • « ° A,0 ^ ’ 4$ % 

. o .4 ^ <f yj^k* °o ^ 





,*1°. 




• « o 


A^ ^ * • ' * * °</* * * - 0 

,0^ * * * °* ^ V Se> A’ 

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ * 

\p «iW0;|%^® V^ v ^V * 

<Vv^ 1^9^* a^- 

v o K/ J 5 & \y 

^ ^ -^5Jtar% .^v ^ A 

^ c u °o°’‘/\.^:'.^ c 0> • 


o*o 



<», * a 6 , % 

% ^ ft 0* ,.1^% < 

^0 


A 





<* *•> vv»* .o v 

* -^k .0* . • L ' 


*. :, 

* 4 0. * 

v -OA V<» «•’ 

Zu *■ c\ % 

^ *»/1 • ^ * * i 





\r> 













WHERE GREEN LANES END 



WHERE GREEN LANES END 


by 

HELEN SWIFT 



New York B. W. HUEBSCH, INC. Mcmxxiv 


Copyright, 1924, by 
B. W. HUEBSCH, INC. 


Printed in U. S. A. 

ys js3 7 

.Wuss U/r 


Printed on B R all-rag paper 




Jl)N-6’24 


©Cl A 7 9 27 3 2 
n/w t 



DEDICATION 


To him whose love of the beautiful, 
whether in nature or art, whose deep sym¬ 
pathy and understanding make all things 
possible, I dedicate this little book—my 
first venture. 



/ 


f 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

The papers which constitute this book 
first appeared in the columns of Unity and 
the Freeman , to whose editors the author is 
indebted for the right to reprint. 











WHERE GREEN LANES END 

I 


The Spring about Chicago has been a series 
of disappointments—one bright warm day and 
the grass takes on a greener hue, the leaves push 
their way a bit further out and the flower buds 
begin to show colour; but a week of cooler 
weather leaves them at a standstill. Down in 
the garden, we eagerly watched a tree—for 
weeks it seemed not to change except that the 
bark on the smaller branches grew less dingy- 
looking and we knew the sap was coursing 
through its veins, then the buds began to swell 
and then to burst. For a week the tree looked 
as if strung with tiny seed pearls but gradually 
the buds changed into little leaves. Suddenly 
the tree was green. 

Fate, in the guise of the music festival, took 

7 


us to Cincinnati. The beauty of the country 
was a revelation to me, who had visited it only 
in the leafless season. Spring was certainly 
there. Summer was nigh the beginning of her 
reign. A motor trip took us into the country; 
that glorious sunny morning can never be for¬ 
gotten. Below us the Ohio, winding and turn¬ 
ing—the rolling fields on this side, and farm¬ 
lands, backed by wooded hills, seen through the 
gleaming bark of the plane trees, on the far¬ 
ther side. Our motor turned and twisted with 
the winding road and took the hills, as eager 
for them as we were. The hillsides gleamed 
in myriad-toned beauty—here grew the pinkish 
purple of the red-bud or Judas tree, so gorgeous 
and so delightful that we could scarcely speak 
for joy—here the white of the flowering dog¬ 
wood—here the copper colour of the beeches 
and the brown and yellow of the freshly turned 
earth—here a group of cotton-wood trees, their 
young leaves resembling garlands of pale grey 
flowers—here the delicate bloom of the apple 
close beside the blossoming cherry whose petals 
were falling like snow flakes—a little further 
8 


on, the purple of the plum and, here in the 
centre, the black trunks and branches of the 
leafless trees, resembling the centre of a paisley 
shawl, and all surrounded by the cool green 
fringe of the young willows. 

Each turn of the river gave us an enchanted 
view. Off in the distance, the rolling hills of 
Indiana; in another direction, and quite near, 
the blue hills of Kentucky. Here the Miami 
flowed into the Ohio, and further on the Little 
Miami gurgled over its rocky bed and, leaving 
its sandy banks, overflowed into the same great 
river. 

We visited the tomb of Tippecanoe in a 
delightful old grave-yard. Removing our 
hats, we threw ourselves on the ground and 
stretched our arms in appreciation and grati¬ 
tude for this delightful day—this delightful 
country. Close by, two little girls were play¬ 
ing and they soon came and shyly offered us 
bouquets of violets and myrtle. At our backs 
was the river; at our right a huge beech tree, 
its great trunk gleaming in the sunlight while, 
amid its tender young green leaves, four blue- 
9 


jays fluttered, chased and scolded. *‘Looking 
for a place to build/’ we thought, “and where 
could a more delightful location be found?” 
But the proud birds were not so easily satis¬ 
fied. Off they flew, chattering noisily, to an¬ 
other and another tree. Below us a ravine, its 
banks so green and beyond, the red-bud in great 
profusion. Suddenly three musical notes 
reached our ears. A moment’s thought, and 
we decided that it was a whip-poor-will. The 
music came from some near-by tree and soon 
we discovered a small grey and black bird, 
quite unknown to us, that cocked its head at us 
and again flooded the air with its melody. 
The grass at our feet was dotted with purple 
violets and we had only to turn our heads to¬ 
wards the river, and use our imagination a 
little, to fancy ourselves looking across the 
Rhine to the vineyards beyond. 

As we resumed our ride, a meadow-lark rose 
from a field, gave us a song and soared away. 
The chortle of the blackbirds resounded from 
the marshes—a bluebird eyed us saucily from 
a near-by fence and two wild doves arose from 
10 


the road and flew into the wood at our ap¬ 
proach. The golden wings of a flicker caught 
the sun’s rays and reflected its radiance—the 
robins sailed happily across our pathway and, 
as we stopped for a splendid view, we heard 
the “Bob-White” of the quail (which is here 
classed as a song bird and therefore protected 
from the hunters), and a brown thrush flew 
low into the bushes. 

We turned city-ward quite, quite full of that 
joy too deep for words, but with a memory we 
can never lose. 


11 


II 


Through a blush-pink mist of apple, pear 
and cherry blossoms I returned to Arcady. 
The roadsides gleamed with purple violets 
and an occasional pure white trillium; the 
brooks were edged with swamp-marigold and 
blue flags. Once a scarlet tanager darted 
across the blue; again, a saucy quail sat upon a 
fence-post and scoffed. 

Early morning took me to my wild-garden. 
As I brushed away their winter coverlet of 
thick leaves, the violets, pink and white tril¬ 
lium, belwort, and the beautiful pink and blue 
mertensia smiled gaily. The ferns and bracken 
were quite high and green, but not yet un¬ 
furled. High out of the leaves the maidenhair 
had pushed its wine-coloured stems, bearing 
funny little curls, soon to become the beautiful, 
12 


delicate leaves of the fern. Several lady- 
slippers had already appeared, two quite tall, 
with their buds closely folded within their 
leaves. Colonies of Turk’s Cap lilies showed 
their fresh and tender green above the dead 
brown leaves. Groves of mandrake were in 
evidence, and one sturdy little fellow, disdain¬ 
ing a circuitous route, had pushed his way 
directly through a dead leaf, and stood there 
imprisoned. I dare say his determination 
would eventually have been rewarded, but I 
stooped and removed the dead leaf, and I 
thought the little plant expanded with a grate¬ 
ful gesture. 

On the branch of a blossom-laden apple tree, 
just below the cottage, perched a tiny wren, his 
melody flooding garden and porch and cottage. 
How marvellous to hear such music from such 
a tiny throat! Soon he was joined by Mrs. 
Wren, who chirped and hopped about and flut¬ 
tered from one branch to another, nearer and 
nearer to a bird-house hanging on the tree and 
suddenly, after glancing about, popped into 
it. Since then, they have been working mer- 
13 


rily. With bits of straw in their mouths, they 
fly from the grass into a near-by tree and thence 
into their little house; but they soon emerge, 
sing a snatch of song, and disappear. They 
seem to be quite fearless and to appreciate 
all that is done for them, for they have already 
taken possession of the gaily coloured tin cans, 
nailed to the trees and fence-posts, from which 
they stop and look at one for a moment, as if 
to say, “Thank you—but we are very busy 
to-day.” 

The shack, generally used as a study, has 
been pre-empted. Just inside the porch, on a 
beam, is a phoebe’s nest, with its five white 
eggs. It is built of grasses, still green, prob¬ 
ably from the first mowing of the lawn, and 
looks very untidy; but the birds themselves 
are spick and span in their dark grey plumage, 
with black markings on head and wings, and 
a white edge to the tail. Friendly birds they 
are, for they flit about among the trees, and 
promenade upon the lawn, and become watch¬ 
ful only when one enters their porch, outside 
of which one screen stands useless, for there 
14 


must be a means of entrance and egress for 
these feathered friends. On the window-ledge 
of this same shack is a robin’s nest of clean, 
gleaming straw, the ends of which straggle 
down the sides. For a few days the robins 
flitted in and out, feeding their five young ones, 
but to-day the nest is empty. It is strange how 
seldom one can see the young birds as they 
leave their nests. Close by the pump, in an 
elderberry bush not yet covered with leaves, 
a catbird is building her nest. Is it the same 
bird, I wonder, that built there last year 4 ? I 
thought that the frequent use of the pump 
might frighten her away, especially as she has 
not yet laid her eggs; but no, she bravely goes 
on building. 

But the wrens are not the only birds that 
have made use of the tin cans. High up in an 
oak tree overlooking the drive, a pair of blue¬ 
birds have selected a vivid red one. I spent an 
hour watching them. At first they eyed me 
with distrust, flying from branch to branch of 
neighbouring trees; but never alighting on this 
particular one. Suddenly the mother bird, of 
15 


a soft dun colour with only a suggestion of blue 
in wings and tail, stole into the can, remained 
exactly four minutes, then poked her head out, 
looked cautiously about, and flew swiftly away. 
A few moments passed and then a flash of blue 
—doubly intense in contrast with the red of the 
can—and the cock entered. Half a minute 
sufficed for his share of the work; then he 
joined the hen on the lawn. After this, they 
paid little attention to me, and went about 
their business of feeding their young, the 
father devoting much less time to it than the 
mother bird. 

Two bluejays are building in a linden. 
Such busy birds they are! Such rapid trips, 
each time with a grass or a twig in the beak! 
And how beautiful they are, as their feathers 
catch the glint of the sun! So swiftly do they 
work that they are momentarily in danger of 
collisions. Indeed, once their wings brushed, 
but with a whir they righted themselves, and 
resumed their ways—one to, and the other from 
the nest which is perched just above a green 
can inhabited by a family of wrens, and is hid- 
16 


den by foliage, except on one side, which is 
made of a lattice of twigs and grasses and, as 
if to mark the spot, a piece of white cardboard 
at the base. 

The orioles seem more numerous, or perhaps 
they have become so tame that I count the same 
ones over and over. Last year, no nest could 
be seen, but this season one hangs on the sway¬ 
ing bough of a tall oak near the gate. Having 
heard that they like oranges, I cut some in half 
and hung them by cords on trees near the cot¬ 
tage. The first day the orioles hopped inquir¬ 
ingly about, but would not come near enough 
to investigate. However, a phoebe soon 
perched upon one of them and pecked at the 
fruit with evident enjoyment. Then the cock 
came, chased her away, and took possession of 
the orange, though many others hung close by. 
It was amusing to see him feast—a peck at the 
orange, then the black-topped head was lifted, 
as if to taste the nectar all the way down his 
little throat, then another peck, another, and 
another. Towards evening we heard the 
whistle of the oriole, and suddenly the branches 
17 


of a slender young maple, its leaves almost as 
yellow as the orange hung upon it, began to 
bend and sway. An oriole had alighted upon 
the orange, and was swinging back and forth, 
pecking at it with great delight. Since then, 
the phoebes and the orioles have vied with each 
other for possession. To-day an oriole swung 
daintily on an orange basket, while a phoebe, 
from a branch above, dropped apple-blossom 
petals upon him until he flew away in disgust, 
whereupon the phoebe slid down the cord and 
commenced to feed. 

Three red-headed woodpeckers have been 
rioting for days about the woods and gardens. 
A harsh cry, a dash of red and white across the 
blue sky, then a whir of wings, and the fore¬ 
most woodpecker, pursued by the other two, 
darts in and out among the trees. Round and 
round they circle, alighting now on the grass— 
their colour vying with the golden dandelion 
—now on a linden, almost hidden in its foliage, 
now on a red maple. What is their game, I 
wonder*? Perhaps it is only the spring getting 
into their blood—the same impulse that 
18 


prompts girls to jump rope and small boys to 
play marbles at this season. For days a wood¬ 
pecker has been boring a hole high up in a 
tough old oak. Just as I had decided that he 
had undertaken a task too difficult, he popped 
his head out of the hole, and looked down 
wisely, as if to say “I did it, I did it.” 

A little humming-bird came shyly into the 
garden, but finding its favourite, the wild 
columbine, not yet in bloom, flew away. To¬ 
day three have fluttered about, poising to sip 
nectar from the apple blossoms, and visiting 
the mertensia which rivals the sky in colour. 
Bits of a rainbow they seem, as their gossamer 
wings catch the sun’s rays and reflect them 
iridescently. 

This morning a cry of “Come quickly, the 
bees are swarming,” brought me swiftly to the 
garden. They were swarming indeed. Out¬ 
side the solitary hive were more bees than I 
thought I possessed, while many more were fly¬ 
ing through the air to an oak tree where was 
a never-to-be-forgotten sight. From the base 
of the tree to a height of three feet the bees 
19 


were massed, one upon another, looking exactly 
like a thick fungus growth, except that the mass 
kept surging—constantly moving. It is said 
that bees keep up this surging in their hives 
all winter—the lower ones crawling to the top 
and the upper ones to the bottom in order that 
all may keep warm. “Does this mean that the 
bees are swarming to leave us?” “Yes,” the 
gardener answered, “there is a new queen bee. 
I must get another hive to put them in.” I 
was reminded of a quiet Sunday afternoon, two 
years ago, when I looked out of the window 
and saw a small, funnel-shaped cloud approach 
nearer and nearer, and finally settle upon the 
little red maple. This swarm of bees was 
coaxed into a hive, not without trials and tribu¬ 
lations and stings for man and dog. 

At supper, one evening, I had my first sight 
of an indigo bunting. Imagine a beautifully 
formed little bird, of the most glorious colour 
in the world—a deep, rich robin’s-egg blue, 
without a single feather of contrasting colour— 
sitting upon the topmost bough of a tender 
20 


green maple. Could anything be more 
beautiful ? 

Sitting here at sundown, I look through a 
fret-work of dark branches laden with gold, 
brown, red and green leaves, and pink and 
white blossoms, to the lake which lies below. 
The maples, the willows, the birches on 
the opposite shore are softened by a delicate 
violet haze, and the hills beyond seem to rise 
out of a purple mist. 


21 


Ill 


As we skirted the shore of our Wisconsin 
lake all its beauty seemed new to us. 
Glimpses of pale green wheat fields between 
two groves of dark trees—the distant purple 
wooded hills in the shadow of great clouds— 
the rocky banks, o’errun with vines and ferns— 
sandstone bluffs, capped by dark, forbidding 
pines—the white birches, bent or broken by the 
winter’s sleet, touching the water’s edge—the 
silver-sanded beaches—surely they had never 
seemed quite so beautiful. 

The clouds cast their dark shadows on the 
tranquil lake, great purple patterns upon the 
pale green carpet; the fish jumped with a 
splash, leaving ever widening eddies to show 
whence they had come, bank swallows soared 
above us, then lightly skimmed the surface of 
22 


the water and suddenly darted into their holes 
in the clay banks. Beautiful, graceful terns 
with black heads and underbodies, gleaming as 
if still wet, with grey backs, wings and tails, 
flew lightly about, almost touching us, and 
then dropped swiftly to the water, to rise with 
minnows in their bills, and then circle away. 

Suddenly a bald-headed eagle came over the 
tree tops before us, so close that we could easily 
discern its white head and tail, and flew majes¬ 
tically across our bow, directly over the broad 
expanse of water, and was soon lost in the 
dense woods of the hill beyond. Here the 
breeze freshened and the dark pines and oaks 
and walnut trees swayed rhythmically. In 
which of those almost inaccessible trees was the 
eyrie safely hidden? They guarded their se¬ 
cret well. 

Great was our delight, and rare our treat, to 
see a blue crane walking amongst the reeds 
along a near-by shore, its body almost hidden, 
melting into the greens and greys of the marsh, 
sometimes coming into full relief against the 
young yellow willows, its long light neck and 
23 


head looking like a heavy cane, or like a last 
year’s cat-tail bent by its own weight. Some¬ 
times it stood quite still with head bent, watch¬ 
ing for fish; again, perfectly motionless upon 
the water, its head on the same level—then a 
dart, and the head was raised, a fish in its beak, 
and it rose to its feet with head lifted still 
higher to enjoy thoroughly the dainty morsel. 
Once the fish slipped back into the water but, 
with a quick movement, the crane recovered it 
and resumed its stately march. Silently each 
foot was raised and lowered, leaving not a rip¬ 
ple to betray it. Sometimes, its head raised as 
if listening, it turned our way. Then a lumber¬ 
ing wagon approached and off the crane flew, 
raising itself ever so lightly, and disappearing 
beyond the tree tops—its slender body, with 
head stretched forward and legs protruding in 
the rear, looking like an horizontal interroga¬ 
tion point. Hours later, as our boat passed, 
the crane was searching for fish a little farther 
along the same shore. But this time its search 
was of short duration. A flock of blackbirds 
descended upon it and drove it away. Indeed, 
24 


one bold blackbird chased it with grim deter¬ 
mination, flying above it and alighting upon 
its head, until they were both lost in the deep 
reeds behind an old bridge. 

As we turned homeward, a pair of beautiful 
black loons, with white breasts, swam imme¬ 
diately in front of the launch until, suddenly 
perceiving us, they dived, to reappear many 
yards off our starboard. 


^5 


IV 


What better day for motoring than when the 
sky is overcast! For hours we travelled 
through a heavy Scotch mist which, now and 
then, gleamed like myriad diamonds as the sun 
shone through, and lay on the fields beyond in 
great golden patches. The bobolinks liked it, 
for they flew exultantly across the fields and 
settled on the fences to enjoy it more fully. 
The storm, as it approached, was glorious. 
Great rolling banks of low-lying clouds on the 
left might have been the foot-hills of some great 
Western range; in the foreground a group of 
trees on a hilltop, almost enveloped in clouds, 
resembled the turrets of some old feudal castle, 
while, on the right, the landscape still gleamed 
in the sun, as fresh and green and tender as a 
new-born world. The storms followed each 
26 


other swiftly, the rain pelting with terrific 
force, but just as swiftly came gleaming sun¬ 
shine. The patient cows stood in the pastures 
or under wide spreading trees and, at the first 
hint of sunshine, meandered off to browse upon 
the lush and tender grass. The robins needed 
little to tempt them to burst into song, and the 
meadow-larks rose into the sky from their nests, 
hidden in the deep grass and protected by the 
overhanging ledge of a ditch. Then a grey¬ 
ness, dense enough to cut, and 

“The hills were a misty shadow 
And the clouds a shadowy mist.’* 

But a sudden splash of light—a vista of fertile 
fields between two wooded knolls, such as one 
sometimes sees between two mountain peaks 
where the air is very rare and every object is 
accentuated. After this, a purple glow over 
field and hill and wood and the storm had 
passed. 


27 


V 


To awaken to the twitter of the birds, to 
throw up the blind and greet the dazzling sun¬ 
shine—how better could one start an October 
day? Weeks ago the birds gathered for their 
migration to the South, the trees and meadows 
were thronged with starlings, thrushes and red- 
and yellow-winged blackbirds, and I thought 
of the hours when I should miss their beauty, 
their music and their companionship. 

The bird-boxes near the house have long 
been empty, though I saw the courting of the 
wrens, the robins, the catbirds and the orioles 
and watched the wrens, at least, raise two 
broods in their tiny houses hung from the trees 
almost within arm’s reach. The catbirds, 
nothing daunted by my passing to and fro, 
built their nests, laid their grey-blue eggs, and 
28 


raised their young in a shrub close beside the 
pump! The orioles sang to me from the apple 
tree near-by, first their song of mating-time, 
and then their fuller, richer song of midsummer. 
I searched far and near for their nests, and only 
after the young birds had left them did I dis¬ 
cover one on a low-swinging bough in the or¬ 
chard. I remember the joy of watching a pair 
of orioles, one June, build their nest on a droop¬ 
ing bough of a cut-leaf maple just opposite my 
window. We became so well acquainted that 
they would perch in the tree and answer my 
whistle. 

Below the house the yellow-hammers and the 
cheeky red-headed woodpeckers flitted in and 
out of their holes in a tall dead tree, and in 
June the humming-birds fairly took possession 
of the rock-garden. Half a dozen of them, 
with their whir and gentle “cluck,” would flit 
back and forth above the flowers, poising, now 
and then, for a deep draught of honey from the 
wild columbine. Whether because the honey 
was particularly delicious, or because the gay 
red and yellow of the blooms attracted them, 
29 


they seemed to claim the columbine as their 
own. Let a trespasser dare set foot in “their” 
garden and they would fly at him and almost 
brush against him, just darting away before 
quite reaching him. Once I had the great hap¬ 
piness of seeing a humming-bird’s nest at close 
range, the mother bird feeding her tiny, tiny, 
nestlings with bits of thistledown—so it 
seemed to me. But even then the bird was 
never still; she fluttered and quivered as if 
frightened by her curious visitor. Often have 
I seen them poised to take honey from a flower, 
but there was always the flutter of the wings, 
the quivering of the body. This year I exam¬ 
ined the humming-birds at my leisure while 
they perched like any other bird, on the fence 
near-by. 

Now the garden’s appearance is all changed. 
Where the yellow lady-slippers, the violets, the 
columbine and Dutchman’s-breeches—and, 
later, Queen Anne’s lace, tall anemones and red 
field-lilies—held their carnival, the purple, 
blue and white asters, goldenrod and yellow 
foxglove now flaunt their autumn tints before 
30 


me. The trees have taken on a ruddier hue. 
Summer is gone, and autumn fast approaches. 
Yet to-day the bluebirds came back and took 
possession of a birdhouse. I saw a pair of 
them trying, by turns, to squeeze into a wren’s 
house. They struggled valiantly but finally 
flew away to a large box. Do they think that 
summer has returned, and is it possible that 
they will raise another brood? The plovers 
circled above my head as I walked across the 
dew-laden golf-links this morning. They 
have been about the links all summer and look 
indifferently upon the golfers as they walk 
about carrying their clubs; but let a club be in¬ 
advertently lifted to one’s shoulder and there 
is a sudden startled cry, and away they go. 
Alas, the plover—the farmer’s friend—has 
reason enough to fly from anything that looks 
like a gun! 

From the hilltop I saw a huge maple in scar¬ 
let splendour, and in another direction a herd 
of gentle Guernseys, which seemed almost a 
part of the autumn woods behind them. Here 
and there was a note of more vivid colouring, 
31 


as if scarlet and golden baskets hung from 
these russet trees. Hundreds of meadow-larks 
were running about the greens. I have lately 
learned, to my surprise, that these are really 
game-birds, having the game-odour which any 
hunting-dog will detect. 

Now that the sun sets farther to the South, 
the dense woods to the West no longer hide it 
and I can watch from my cottage-window the 
great ball of ruddy gold sink behind the 
wooded hills, and enjoy the purple horizon and 
the rose glow above it, and watch for the first 
appearance, as evening darkens, of Venus in the 
South. The lake is beautiful at all seasons 
and all hours—the water rippling and glisten¬ 
ing in the sunlight, and the fish flopping lazily 
above the surface here and there. The reflec¬ 
tions are ever changing: here it is a field of 
corn-shocks, with golden pumpkins or ripened 
grain at their bases, or a field of green alfalfa 
with an orchard of red apples as a background; 
there a rocky ledge with the daily reddening 
woodbine trailing to the water’s edge, or a less 
rugged shore where the yellow berries of the 
32 


bitter-sweet mingle with the purple clusters of 
the wild grape vine. Lovelier still is the sil¬ 
ver path of the full moon, and the myriad stars 
gleaming so brightly in the placid lake as to 
make one feel that one is suspended in space 
with stars all about one. 

Yes, October is here. Already the ducks 
are coming from the North. Great flights of 
mallards pass over the lake. Partridge¬ 
shooting begins. These are evidences beyond 
dispute—but summer lingers with warm days 
of sunshine and to-day I plucked a white rose 
in my garden, a Frau Driischki as beautiful as 
any grown in June, and I found violets in bud, 
with new spring-green leaves, and tender young 
lady-slipper plants. Even the syringa thinks 
it is June and is in bloom again. I glance 
above me and see the silvery moon with a fleecy 
cloud wafted now and then across her face, and 
the stars gleaming softly, and recall the day 
just past: it is difficult to believe that summer 
is gone. 


33 


These early mornings are too beautiful to 
miss. When one’s breakfast seat faces the 
woods, one drinks in its wonders with every sip 
of coffee; the tall oak trees with their tops of 
gold and red and brown against the blue sky, 
their branches waving and tossing and beckon¬ 
ing. How keen one feels to get out into the 
air—fresh washed it seems, so crisp and cool! 
The landscape changes every day, tones deepen, 
leaves fall, giving unfamiliar glimpses of the 
open country beyond, and the sky and water 
vary almost momentarily. 

To-day the lake was never so blue—a deep 
sapphire; the sun shone brightly and the waves 
rippled from shore to shore. The sky was 
mauve grey with scarcely a cloud except, here 
and there, a tiny white one which looked like 
34 



ravelled wool, and over lake and hills and 
woods hung a purple mist. The wooded hills 
slope to the water’s edge and are so beautiful 
in their autumn colouring; the woodbine has 
discarded its first autumn robe of vivid scarlet, 
and trails the shore and climbs the rocks and 
tree trunks—a deep rich wine colour. Many 
of the oaks, cotton-woods and lindens are still 
freshly green, but the other trees have deepened 
and brightened within the past few days. 

Close by a grove of sombre evergreens there 
is a tree so covered with bitter-sweet, the ber¬ 
ries trailing over its leafless branches, that it 
appears one gorgeous orange mass. The whole 
green shore is garlanded with pastel and an oc¬ 
casional note of scarlet, orange or deep ruddy 
red. A solitary tree in a green field, with its 
leafless branches half way up its trunk, its slen¬ 
der top with a tuft of brown leaves, looks like 
a huge grey crane. Far up on the hilltop be¬ 
yond the woods a fringe of willows outlines the 
rambling road. 

Wherever one turns, a different view un¬ 
furls. Here is a sheltered bay, its low shores 

35 


still green, the aster and the golden-rod gleam¬ 
ing against the white birches, some of which 
stand erect, while others bend to kiss the water. 
There is a shallow inlet, its brown reeds un¬ 
dulating with the weight of the red-winged 
blackbirds; again a pond, almost hidden from 
the casual observer, its lily-pads iridescent in 
the sunlight; across the lake a slender penin¬ 
sula, with one lone pine and behind it, woods 
of every hue and, above, water-towers, their 
cream-coloured sides half covered with vines, 
garlands of woodbine hanging from their red- 
tiled roofs. 

By noon cloud and haze had disappeared, 
and the sky became quite, quite blue. The 
water sparkled and gleamed and the bass 
jumped and splashed and tempted the eager 
fishermen. 

Just before sundown, the migrating birds 
commenced their chattering and twittering, and 
the rustle of their wings was everywhere, The 
red-headed woodpeckers, the yellow-hammers, 
the plovers, with their golden legs, and striped 
breasts of black and white, the robins and noisy 

36 


bluej ays and the beautiful bluebirds, are still 
with us. The blackbirds gather in huge flocks 
and wend their way Southward; the wild ducks 
fly across the lake in search of night-quarters, 
and sometimes rest upon its surface. The 
various warblers, quite strange to this locality, 
stop and give us a song or two. 

A huge fish-hawk has been hovering about 
the lake for the past week. To-day he flew 
high into the air, poised a second, and dived 
swiftly to the lake. He landed with such 
force that the spray rose twenty feet into the 
air; then the hawk arose with a fish in his beak, 
but the weight of the water on wings and back 
bore him, again and again, to the lake. At last 
he arose, victorious, gave his wings a mighty 
shake and flew off to the shore to enjoy his 
hard-earned meal. 

Then the clouds gathered in the West and 
the sun sank behind a purple mass, peeping 
through the crevices as if to bid the world good 
night, with the promise of a gorgeous morrow. 


37 


VII 


The West was radiant with colour as I 
reached the lake and looked beyond the encir¬ 
cling hills. Immediately above the horizon, in 
an apple-green sky, floated two sunset clouds 
—carmine islands in a tranquil sea. Above, in 
the robin’s-egg blue, massive clouds were 
aflame, their edges touched with grey; and 
higher still, billowy opal clouds against a back¬ 
ground of deeper blue. A flaming cornucopia 
slowly uncurled itself until it was only a long 
slender ribbon floating across the heavens. 
What fascination to watch their ever-chang¬ 
ing shape and colour; to see them turn from 
white to vivid rose and, as the sun’s rays touch 
them, take on a deeper, richer red; until, turn¬ 
ing drab and melting into mist, they finally 
merge into the steel-blue sky! 

38 ' 


In the East all was dark, forbidding, cold. 
Near the water’s edge rested an austere purple 
cloud but, suddenly kissed by the sun, it 
seemed to blush rosily and dimple. But the 
glamour vanished almost as soon as it came. 
In the West I saw a proud white gull rise, with 
a whir of wings, from the water at my feet, 
and glide into the gold of the sunset, like an 
airship sailing off in quest of some happy ad¬ 
venture. In these few moments the whole 
West had changed. What had seemed a blue- 
green sea was now a desert on whose saffron 
sands the erstwhile rosy, boat-like clouds were 
patches of dark and dusty herbage; the cloud¬ 
lets, a caravan of camels toiling its weary way 
across the desert. 

In the track of the sun a fisherman cast away 
his minnow, stood up in his boat and raised his 
anchor, frightening a flock of grebe which scur¬ 
ried and scuttled along the surface of the water. 
Then there was a harsh cry, and a dextrous 
kingfisher swooped down from an overhanging 
branch and, seizing the minnow, flew exult¬ 
antly with it along the wooded shore. A light 
39 


breeze stirred the water into dancing ripples. 
Away in the Southeast the scene was Oriental, 
with its soft gradations of saffron, yellow, rose, 
blue, green, like the iridescent sands of the 
desert beneath a cloudless sky of pure gold. 
Were it not for the chill winds of autumn how 
easy it would be to imagine oneself in the land 
where “the vine hath budded and its blossom 
is open and the pomegranates are in flower.” 

On the hill a field of alfalfa lay green and 
gleaming between two russet woods and, in the 
midst of it, a solitary oak flashing like a ruby 
in the setting sun. For a moment before the 
sun reached the rim of the hill a great splash 
of glowing light flooded the field and the 
woods; then the shadows came and robbed the 
scene of all its garish colours. I watched all 
this fade, as I listened to the twittering of the 
bank swallows flitting along the shore, the low¬ 
ing of the distant cattle and, now and then, 
the harsh, discordant note of the bluejay, and 
the “caw caw” of the crows, which seemed to 
be begging for a longer day. Over the tree- 
tops a cormorant flew swiftly into the West; 
40 


its black body and bullet-like head, with its 
long pink bill, gleamed for a moment in the 
after-glow. I wondered if it were the last of 
the birds seeking a night’s rest. As I climbed 
the hill to my cottage I turned back to look at 
the tall oak trees silhouetted against the lake 
and sky. All was hushed, bathed in a silver 
glow as gentle as moonlight. 

Later I went out into the night. Through 
the tree-tops the stars shone brightly—Venus, 
the ever-faithful, blue Vega above, Deneb the 
guardian of the Milky Way, Altair and ruddy 
Antares. Through an avenue of trees I caught 
a glimpse of the red embers of my neighbour’s 
bonfire; the thin blue smoke curled lazily up¬ 
ward, and the light breeze brought me the scent 
of burning leaves and birch twigs. The air 
was redolent of the odours of an autumn night 
—the aroma of dew-laden shrubs, the pungent 
smoke, and the smell of the damp earth. How 
vividly odours bring back old memories: the 
sweetbriar at the gate of our childhood home; 
pennyroyal as we gathered blueberries in our 
youth; the aromatic perfume of the balsam as 
41 


we searched for lady-slippers beneath its 
branches! 

Passing through the woods to reach the open 
hill, I was startled by the eerie wail of a 
screech-owl; two bats darted past my face. I 
heard the cheery voices of two country lads. 
“It’s fine and clear.” ‘Think we’ll have 
frost.” “Good night.” Good, indeed! It 
was absolutely calm, not even a leaf rustled; 
one could hear only the deep breathings of the 
night. Dimly I could see Sadman’s lonely 
cedar on Breakneck Hill a mile away. The 
long ridge beyond the lake was distinct, and 
hung like a deep hem on the spangled robe of 
the firmament. Lights flamed in the windows 
of a little farmhouse not far away. Within, 
the daily tasks were over—for all but the weary 
mother—and one could imagine the family 
seated about the lamp, the rest with books and 
papers, she with the never-empty mending- 
basket on her lap. But what light is that— 
now a silvery mist, and now a golden glow! It 
increases in strength; it lights up Smenkin’s 
farm—the huge barns, the hay-ricks, the great, 
42 


gaunt, leafless trees. Suddenly it comes into 
full view—the two headlamps of a motor-car! 
Swiftly over the brow of the hill it sweeps, 
down into the valley, as into an abyss, and is 
lost. I was not sorry to see it disappear, and 
turned with a sigh of relief to the fitful glow 
of the lights from Bramleigh town, and to the 
panorama of the sky. The blue-black sky was 
aglow. It looked like the Milky Way. Surely 
there never were so many stars. So large they 
seemed, so bright, so near! I scarcely dared 
stretch out my hand lest I should touch them. 
I watched the Big Dipper sink slowly in the 
North and the Pleiades tremble in the East, 
and the waning moon, touching the distant 
hill-tops with silver. As I turned towards 
home I felt the wind rising, and heard the 
rustle of the dead leaves as they scurried about 
the ground, and in a few hours the whole sky 
was overcast, and the moon hidden by great 
banks of rolling clouds. Ah, it is November, 
and with a pang of regret I know that my days 
in the country are numbered. 


43 


VIII 


As the train bore me away from New York, 
I looked out upon the rugged hillsides with 
their varicoloured rocks—here grey, here yel¬ 
low, red and brown. The fresh green foliage 
of the mountain laurel contrasted sharply with 
the blue rocky bed of the dancing brook. In 
the East was a great luminous cloud—now hid¬ 
den by the hills, now in view above the lower 
ones—and, outlined against it, a huge flock of 
crows—hundreds of them—flew above the tree- 
tops, and finally settled on the leafless branches 
of a group of white plane trees. 

A little pool came flashing into view where 
every colour of the rainbow smiled up at me 
from its calm surface, and I turned to the West 
to watch the sunset. The sun, a great ball of 
ruddy gold, gleamed and glinted against the 
44 


perpendicular sides of the palisades, accent 
tuating the lights and shadows and the myriad 
soft tones of purple, rose and blue. Softly it 
sank, now hiding for a moment behind the hill¬ 
tops, now touching the crags with gold, now 
vanishing behind a great bank of clouds, touch¬ 
ing their edges with silver, and emerging again 
with bright shining face. 

I sat quietly drinking in the beauty of the 
countryside; the ploughed fields, in the light 
of the setting sun, looking like patchwork quilts 
with their furrows of brown, red, grey, and 
even pink and purple; and close beside them 
the feathery grasses in all the tones of dusty 
brown, standing quite erect, their plumes sway¬ 
ing in the gentle breeze. How different, I 
thought, from my last view of the Hudson 
woods, in the early autumn. They were then 
dressed in their richest green with only the 
first hint of autumn's change, with an oc¬ 
casional scarlet woodbine and the brown gold 
of the hazel, and the dull wine colour of the 
sumac. Then the view was obscured by fo¬ 
liage. Now long vistas open through the 
45 


columns of tree trunks, which throw long slen¬ 
der intersecting shadows on the slopes of the 
hills. Then the ground was covered with fresh 
wintergreen and mosses, the yellow creeping 
buttercup, the brakes and ferns. Now the 
scarlet checkerberry gleams among the once 
proud ferns and bracken, which are brown and 
sear. A running stream, a church spire, which 
I had not seen before, the country homes, seen 
above the tree-tops, all give the landscape a 
different aspect. 

My thoughts turned still further back, and 
I recalled these same hillsides in June, when 
the mountain laurel appeared a fairy shrub 
with its panicles of blushing flowers, when the 
blue flags brightened the swamps, and marsh- 
marigolds gleamed like golden nuggets among 
the grasses. Then the violets peeped at us with 
wide-open eyes from the edge of the brooks 
and, snuggled among the green mosses, the 
hepatica nestled. Now all is changed; the gor¬ 
geous colourings of November have passed 
away, but there are striking contrasts still. 
The stalwart oaks, white birches, willows still 
46 


leafed in pale green, their tips touched with 
molten gold, the beech trees with their silver 
branches and their tawny leaves, and the crim¬ 
son sumac or the delicate scarlet of the wild 
cherry give the needed note of colour. 

Quietly I drank in all the charm and mystery 
of the December woods, my mind full of 
strange intangible fancies, listening half un¬ 
consciously to the voices about me. Then my 
gaze turned to the occupants of the car, and I 
idly wondered how many of them realized the 
beauties about us, and then I heard a gentle 
childish voice close beside me. 

“Ellen, Fve made a lovely fairy-tale. Shall 
I tell it to you?” and the answer, in a rich 
Irish brogue, “Yis, me darlint.” 

Near me sat a comfortable Irish maid of per¬ 
haps thirty, gazing lovingly at a bewitching 
child of ten or eleven years, who climbed upon 
her knee, from the hassock at her feet. She 
was a slender little thing, her body full of 
grace; the golden hair, tossed back from her 
face, fell in soft waves to her shoulders; her 
skin was fair, overspread with a faint pink 
47 


flush, and her teeth small and white, like rows 
of milk-white pea r ls. But her eyes! They 
were liquid brown, showing great capacity for 
joy and suffering, such questioning gentle eyes 
as one sometimes sees in a fine intelligent dog; 
they were fringed with black lashes which 
curled back and down until they almost 
touched the lids and cheeks. “A beautiful 
creature,” I thought, “a fairy being herself,” 
but my first impression was of a child going 
forth, with high ideals, to greet life, her arms 
and heart open eagerly to accept all its beau¬ 
ties, and I trembled for her disillusionments, 
and I wondered what was in store for her. 

“Well, then,” the little one continued, “this 
story does not begin ‘Once upon a time.’ It 
is a now story. Look outside, Ellen, at those 
oak trees. Well, that’s where my story begins. 
Those are not oaks—not really. They are 
people, great stalwart men—some of them dad¬ 
dies, in nice brown suits; see how serious and 
important they look! Some of the men are 
poor, they have no suits at all—how cold they 
must be—but they look proud just the same, 
48 


don't they? See those with a few yellow 
leaves at the ends of their branches? Those 
are the misers, Ellen, stingy men; they hold 
out their bags of gold and shake them in other 
men's faces. See how dirty the gold is. That 
is from so much counting. And, Ellen, the 
willow trees! They are the mothers. How 
kindly they stretch out their protecting arms, 
as if to comfort the little ones! Some of them 
are weeping, their heads bowed and their arms 
hanging sadly by their sides. Here is a 
wretched one, her scant grey-gold locks falling 
untidily about her shoulders. We must ask 
the fairies to make her happy. Those little 
red trees, with the tiny berries on them! 
Those are the little children, some creeping, 
some romping about the hillside; some leaning 
upon their mother's knees listening, with wide- 
open eyes, to the fairy tales, as if they really 
saw the enchanted princess. O, Ellen, they do 
see her! I see her myself; I see a whole proces¬ 
sion of fairy princesses, all clad in emerald 
green, with tall pointed caps of the same 
colour, and with beautifully carved golden 
49 


ornaments hanging from their necks and shoul¬ 
ders. Of course they look, to grown-ups, 
just like pine trees, but we know better. And 
the birch trees—those are their pages, dressed 
in silver liveries, and they are followed by a 
horde of tiny elves, in cinnamon brown, some 
bowing, some bending, some prostrate in their 
devotion. See the gorgeous crimson mantle 
they have spread for the princesses to walk 
upon! Here is an orchard. How friendly 
the trees look. They are the kindly neigh¬ 
bours, their friendly arms outstretched as if 
beckoning, and their heads nodding as if whis¬ 
pering secrets.” 

Turning her golden head she caught my eye 
and hesitated for a moment. Then divining, 
I hope, my interest in the fairies and my ac¬ 
quaintance with them, she gave me a friendly 
smile which seemed to include me in her 
charmed circle. 

“Look, look/’ she continued in a tone of awe, 
as a grove of stark plane trees came into view, 
their white trunks so virile, their branches so 
graceful—so dignified and rugged, contrasted 
50 


sharply against the pines and spruces. “How 
wonderful they are in their robes of spotless 
white! They must be—yes—they are —the 
priests. See their arms upraised. They are 
pronouncing a benediction. Ellen, they are 
blessing us!” A sob came into the little one’s 
voice, and her eyes were like dim stars. 

“Sure, Mollie darlint, ’twould be a poor 
priest that wouldn’t be after blessing you. 
Write it all down, dear, maybe ’twill be a book 
some day.” 

As the nurse turned in my direction, I caught 
a glimpse of a face that spoke of hard work and 
suffering, but patience and understanding were 
written in every line of it. “Lucky child,” 
I thought, “to have such a nurse to encourage 
you in the play of your imagination. I wonder 
what the future holds in store for you.” All 
was quiet, the little one and I looking out of 
the windows upon the lights of Albany rapidly 
coming into view, the nurse busily engaged in 
gathering up the books and wraps. As I left 
the train, I heard “Mollie Darlint” whisper, 
“The lights, Ellen, let’s have them stars, they 


make a lovely ending to my tale.” Swiftly 
the twilight melted into darkness but, in my 
fancy, I saw the little one, still building fairy 
castles and peopling them with beings of her 
imagination. Turning again to the darkening 
landscape I felt the benediction of the trees, 
the stars, the child. 


5 * 


IX 


The beckoning road, a narrow ribbon of tar¬ 
nished silver, the golden sun, struggling 
through a bank of clouds, and the rambling old 
rail fences tempted me into the dunes one day 
when the woods were full of the rich contrasts 
of early winter. 

A solitary white plane tree, silhouetted 
against the stately oaks, with their ruddy 
branches; the silver-green trunks of the leafless 
cotton-woods; the willows with their golden 
fringe; a row of generous beeches with their 
smooth, shining, grey trunks and feathery 
branches; the green gold and the red gold of 
the grasses, silvered by frost; all these, so proud 
in their dismantled state, spread themselves be¬ 
fore me. 

Here, corn-stacks guarded great piles of 

53 


tawny corn and, at the foot of a gentle slope, 
honey-coloured husks tossed in the breeze; 
there the weather-beaten hay-ricks were quite 
golden where the beasts of the field had eaten 
into them. 

A log cabin, silvered by time, nestled in 3 
bed of gold-brown leaves. A laughing brook 
danced over its amber sands and on its bank 
stood great piles of fresh-cut golden lumber be¬ 
side the dull silver of gnarled roots. Even the 
scrap-iron, touched by frost, bronzed by rust, 
had taken on a look of beauty. 

The silver steam from an engine drifted 
along a golden hillside and, through a fret¬ 
work of trees, I came upon the rolling, tum¬ 
bling golden dunes and, beyond, the pallid lake, 
above which floated a lonely gull. Where the 
silver ribbon ended were piles of red-gold clay, 
shining pebbles and glistening sand to stretch 
the road still farther. 

A sky of silver, the pale sun sinking in the 
West; a splash of gold, a great grey cloud; and 
thus the day melted into twilight. 


54 


X 


I look from my windows across the reser¬ 
voir and into Central Park. Although I can¬ 
not see the sun, the smooth blue waters of this 
miniature lake catch its gleams and reflect them 
to me. A grey gull flashes above it, and rests 
upon its calm surface. Soon the sun comes 
into view, throws long shadows of leafless trees 
on the water which takes on a deeper blue, and 
twilight settles rapidly. I look out upon a 
cloudless sky of robin’s-egg blue, the South¬ 
west suffused with a rosy glow gradually melt¬ 
ing into purple. Then the long, grey twilight 
comes when the near-by shores are hidden, and 
I might be on the edge of the sea. All is still, 
expectant; over the lake soft cobwebs seem to 
float languidly. The evening deepens and the 
water reflects the myriad gleams of the distant 
55 


lights. I can fancy myself upon an ocean 
steamer, looking across the intervening bay to 
the harbour. 

But the water is not always quiet. One 
afternoon I looked from my window and saw 
it a deep, angry, midnight blue, upon which 
whitecaps danced boisterously. Even the sea¬ 
gulls seemed to partake of its wildness, for they 
flew swiftly above it and swooped down sud¬ 
denly upon its billows. Then, as I watched 
it, the snowflakes began to fall, scurrying and 
flurrying like a cloud of white tulle tossed in 
the breeze. What fascination in a snowstorm! 
For me it still has all the charm of my child¬ 
hood—a feeling of mystery, of evanescence. I 
stand breathless, expectant, filled with awe, 
feeling that I must grasp and hold this beau¬ 
tiful, intimate experience close to my heart; 
that it will never come again—never just the 
same—not quite so beautiful, not quite so won¬ 
derful. I want to remain quite still to enjoy 
it, to drench my soul in its beauty. Swiftly 
the snowflakes fell, and covered the dull brown 
earth. To me, the gaunt trees looked less 


lonely against the sky, with its rolling mass of 
grey and purple clouds, than they did against 
the golden sunshine. How the children de¬ 
lighted in this snow! They were throwing 
snowballs almost before enough snow had fal¬ 
len to make them, and the sound of rollicking 
laughter floated up to our windows. The twi¬ 
light suddenly deepened into night, without a 
sunset glow, and by the fitful gleam of the 
street lights I could see only snowflakes. 

But morning brought a wonder-world. The 
waters of the reservoir had frozen in their 
tumultuousness, the waves still showing almost 
black, and the tiny hollows between white with 
snow, one unfrozen patch in the centre looming 
like a black island. The leafless trees formed 
a white lattice through which I looked at the 
park. The underbrush was curled up and 
nestling under its downy covering. Each tree, 
with outstretched arms, gently bore its burden 
of white snow. Each caught the glow of the 
sun, and reflected it a hundred times. But 
this soon changed! The sun’s warm rays 
melted the frozen water, and when we looked 
57 


again upon the little lake, with its snowy 
banks, we saw a cabochon emerald set with 
gleaming diamonds. 

Each day, each twilight, each evening, has 
its illusions. As the lights come on in the 
dusky twilight, the sky-line is beautifully 
broken—a tall, square building here, a tall 
slender one there; a group of trees, their leafless 
branches outlined against the grey sky; a spire 
here, which cuts the horizon sharply—and my 
fancy takes me to the Orient. I seem to see an 
unfamiliar city rising across the lake. 

To-day the water lies silent, sullen, covered 
with a matting of white snow, not a gull in 
sight. The bare, black trees do not stir. All 
nature seems in an angry mood. Who knows? 
It may be the silence before a storm—a snow¬ 
storm which once again will cover earth and 
water with its white mantle. 


58 


XI 


Yesterday the frozen lake gleamed between 
the naked tree trunks which threw their long 
shadows across the hillside. The green roof 
of the cottage was filigreed with silver frost, 
like a piece of rare brocade. The bare ground 
was dry and brown, with occasional piles of 
dead leaves where grass and flowers had lately 
flourished. Only the evergreens showed signs 
of life as they spread their protecting branches. 

But now what fairies have worked their 
magic in Arcady? Overnight it has grown to 
be a different world. The morning shows the 
snow falling softly and covering tree and vine 
and shrub. One could almost imagine the 
thorn-trees again in bloom; their spreading 
branches are so laden with snow. Last year’s 
birds’ nests look like tiny black huts with clean- 
59 


cut white roofs, or like negro mammies’ faces, 
surmounted by spotless caps. The evergreen 
trees are transformed; now they proudly 
stretch forth their long green arms, tenderly 
holding their burden of glistening snow. A 
bird-house swings from an apple bough, look¬ 
ing like a tiny cave covered with white stalac¬ 
tites, and just above a pair of bluejays snuggle, 
their heads tucked into their downy feathers. 
Suddenly their heads emerge—a quick glance, 
a flutter, and with a swoop they alight upon a 
barberry bush, scattering the snow from its 
bronze foliage. Ravenously they peck at the 
scarlet berries, but only for a moment or two, 
then dart away screaming—blue flashes across 
the leaden sky! 

Descending to the lake as the sun emerges, 
skirting the grey rocks and the shrubs, and 
ploughing through great soft white drifts, I 
startle old Molly Cottontail, a brown rabbit, 
nestling under the warm snow. Swiftly she 
scurries across my path, leaving a whirlpool of 
flying snow to mark each mad leap. The sight 
of her reminds me of the fruitless hours that 
60 


the old setter, Joe, spent last summer chasing 
her through the rose gardens and over the wild 
flowers until she escaped into a disused drain¬ 
pipe, where he would stand with exasperating 
patience waiting for her to come out. Poor 
old Joe will not accept the sad truth that he 
has lost his speed! 

As I reach the old landing, I look upon 
an unknown scene. How strange it seems! 
Can it be the same lake that I have known so 
well in spring, in summer and in autumn 4 ? 
The distances seem so great. As the sun 
shines through the flurries of snow, the far¬ 
away barns on the farms yonder gleam like 
rubies. The encircling shore is quite different 
without its fringe of gold or green or brown! 
The neighbouring cottages seem so near now 
that they are no longer hidden in the leafy 
woods. Close beside me some sturdy vines have 
escaped from their white blankets and straggle 
lattice-like up the steep bank. The shore is a 
mass of bristling icicles. I think I see one 
tumbling from the bank; but no, it moves 
stealthily across the snow, and as it crosses the 
61 


brown vines, I find that it is a stoat, a weasel, 
almost as white as the snow about it. It moves 
quietly, its pointed nose just above the snow. 
How beautiful is this animal in winter, how 
different from the insignificant little weasel 
which we know so well in summer! 

The rocks, polished by the dashing waves, 
seem like huge vases, their grey and brown sides 
gleaming through the transparent ice which en¬ 
crusts them, the frozen spray cascading like 
bouquets of flowers from their tops. Hugging 
the shore, the ice is crisp, transparent, deepen¬ 
ing to blue through which the golden sands 
and pebbles gleam like topaz, aquamarines, 
agates and garnets. Beyond is a sapphire belt 
which the wind has swept clear of snow and, 
further still, unfrozen pools like dark oval mir¬ 
rors. The swift-flying terns and the grey and 
white gulls, their bodies iridescent in the sun¬ 
light, dip and soar up and down the banks. 
Far more friendly are they than during the 
warmer months. 

To the East, the shore slopes gently to the 
inlet and its line is broken by mounds of snow 
62 


in all fantastic shapes, as if the wind had tried 
to make snow men, huts and forts, but had 
tired of the sport. Here the hop-trees still 
hold their seed-pods topped with white snow, 
like cotton bursting from its bolls, and the long 
graceful branches of the hackberry, with its 
slender stems, bow almost to the ground. In 
the inlet, the dry rushes bend, weighted with 
snow, and sway rhythmically in the fitful 
gusts. Directly across, on the stern bluff of 
Sandstone, the evergreens and pines look like 
pyramids of waving ostrich plumes, while on 
its steep banks the leafless white birches stand 
like silent sentinels. 

Further on, as far as the eye can reach, the 
once golden beach gleams white beneath the 
stark and stunted trees. The whole field of 
ice and snow reflects the sunlight until it seems 
a huge opal, vying with the sun-kissed clouds 
in colour. Sugar Loaf, capped by dark pines 
seen fitfully as the veil of snow drifts by, re¬ 
minds one of the solemn Sphinx, the white 
spirits of the ice kissing her feet in their eager¬ 
ness for the answers to their questions. The 

63 


deserted cottages along the shore are wrapped 
like ghosts in their winter shrouds. A flock 
of crows comes into view, a strong contrast to 
the white pall beneath them, and their “caw 
caw” is the only sound which intrudes upon the 
perfect quiet. 

The snow ceases and twilight tempts us into 
the little village, which has turned into a thing 
of beauty overnight. Narrow paths bordered 
by high drifts mark the roads, above which we 
catch the rosy glow of the cottage lamps; and 
the church upon the hill-top seems to smile 
benignly upon us. 

The crescent moon hangs like a silver bow, 
and just above lonely Venus holds her golden 
sway, the only star in the vast firmament. 


64 


THE CHICKEN-WOMAN AND THE 
HEN-MAN 


I had just moved into my summer cottage on 
the bank of a lake in Northern Michigan, when 
a large, angular, raw-boned woman drove up 
to my door. 

“I am Mrs. Peel,” she said. “I live in the 
village. I raise chickens, and would like to 
supply you.” 

“Very well,” I answered, pleased to have 
chickens brought to me instead of going to out¬ 
lying farms to get them, “you may bring 
some every Saturday.” 

Promptly, every Saturday morning, Mrs. 
Peel appeared with the chickens, received her 
money, and departed. She was a dour-faced 
woman. Her heavy iron-grey hair was brushed 
tightly back and twisted into a knot, above 

65 


which sat, or rather stood, a straight-brim black 
hat, trimmed with a faded bunch of lilacs. Her 
dress, of dusty brown sateen, was full in the 
skirt; the tight-fitting basque buttoned down 
the front; new sleeves had replaced the old, and 
neither collar nor cuffs relieved the sombreness 
of her attire, but the high neck was fastened 
with a quaint agate brooch. Her feet, clad in 
heavy, flat, black shoes, looked determined as 
she deliberately climbed back into her wagon. 

One Tuesday I wanted a couple of chickens, 
so I drove into the village and stopped at Mrs. 
Peel’s house. It was a wooden building which 
had once been brown. There was a door in 
the centre, and the dirty windows were bare— 
no ornamentation inside or out. The veranda 
was covered with dust, the boards rotting, 
tufts of grass growing in the corners, and 
neglect was evident in every feature of the 
place. I knocked—no answer; again—no 
answer. I looked through the curtainless win¬ 
dow into the parlour-bedroom which seemed to 
be the only habitable room in the house, except 
the little lean-to kitchen in the rear. Then I 
66 


pounded on the door. Mrs. Peel appeared 
promptly from the lean-to. 

“Can you let me have a couple of chickens 
to-day ?” I asked. 

“No, I can’t/’ with a disappointed air, “mine 
are running loose. I can only catch them when 
they are shut up at night.” Then, hopefully, 
“To-morrow won’t do?” 

“No, I’m sorry, but I want them to-day.” 

“Well, maybe Mr. Peel can let you have 
them. I’ll run over and see. He lives just 
around the corner. Set down on the stoop 
there and wait for me.” 

I sat on the “stoop,” idly meditating, “Peel 
—Peel; two people by the same name.” She 
returned in a few minutes: “Yes, Mr. Peel 
says you can have them. They’ll be ready in 
half an hour. He lives in a little house, the 
second one, just around the corner.” 

I found “the little house, the second one, 
just around the corner.” It was nothing but 
an unpainted shanty but, all about, restrained 
by a wire netting, were scores of chickens, so 
I decided that this must be the place. I 
67 


knocked at the door and, as it opened, my 
glance took in the interior; one room, not more 
than twelve feet square, an uninviting-looking 
pallet on the floor, a kitchen table, a kitchen 
chair, and a small oil-stove, with some hooks 
and a shelf above it for the food and cooking 
utensils; this was all the room contained. 

“Is this Mr. Peel‘d” I asked, and my eyes 
travelled down to the man in the doorway be¬ 
fore me. He was very small, with a twisted 
protruding hip, and his arms were too long for 
the rest of his body, but he had the merriest 
blue eyes I have ever seen. His face and 
hands were just the colour of his khaki shirt 
and trousers, which were not too clean, and 
from the former of which several buttons were 
missing. He doffed his once-white straw hat, 
and replied: “Yes, and your chickens are 
all fixed.” Then, in an anxious tone, “I’ve 
some mighty fine hens, good for soup; wouldn’t 
you like some?” 

“Yes, I would. You might bring me a 
couple the last of the week.” His face lighted 
up: “I’ll bring ’em Saturday.” 

68 


The next Saturday, and many Saturdays 
thereafter, Mrs. Peel brought me my chickens, 
and Mr. Peel brought me my hens. They came 
together in the same antiquated spring wagon. 
They sat, side by side, on the springless seat; 
she, with the reins in her hands, towering above 
the mild creature who seemed to shrink away, 
and look more insignificant than ever in con¬ 
trast. She took her money and he took his, 
and then she climbed back into the wagon, 
lifted up the reins, and seemed to wait impa¬ 
tiently until he gaily clambered up beside her. 
Off she drove without, as far as I could see, 
indulging in any conversation with the merry¬ 
looking gnome at her side. 

“Curious,” I would murmur. “Her name 
is Peel; his name is Peel; I wonder what rela¬ 
tion they are. He’s her brother-in-law, per¬ 
haps.” 

For a while, this tentative solution satisfied 
me but, one morning, when she had climbed 
into the wagon, and he stood just below the 
porch making change, my curiosity suddenly 
got the better of me. 


69 


“What relation are you two?” I asked. He 
looked up at me, and his eyes danced. 

“You want to know what relation we be?” 

“Yes.” Then, after a glance over his shoul¬ 
der, to make sure that Mrs. Peel was out of 
ear-shot, he raised himself to his tip-toes, and 
answered me thus: “Well, we war husband 
and wife, but we hain’t none.” 

“You f war husband and wife, but you hain’t 
none/ ” I weakly echoed. “How do you make 
that out?” Only the balustrade of the porch 
prevented his coming still closer as, with an¬ 
other glance over his shoulder at the occupant 
of the wagon, he whispered: “Divorced.” 

This was certainly a surprise to me, for I had 
not supposed that divorces had penetrated as 
far as this simple little hamlet: “Well, you 
seem to be on very friendly terms for a divorced 
couple. That’s all I can say.” 

Then, in his ordinary voice, which was a bit 
wistful and appealing, and seeming to take de¬ 
light in the thought that she might hear, he 
said: “Oh, she’s all right as a neighbour, but 
a damn bad wife. And, besides, it’s cheaper 
70 


to take her round with my horse and wagon 
and get her trade than to pay her alimony.” 

For several years this went on. In fact, it 
came to be a family joke. 'The Peel wagon 
is at the door. It must be Saturday,” we 
would often remark. Other times I rarely saw 
Mrs. Peel. She seemed to spend most of her 
time “back of the house”; but I saw Mr. Peel 
frequently. Always, he snatched the battered 
old straw hat off his head, and he greeted me 
with a strange twinkling smile, for all the 
world as if he were guarding a secret, and 
chuckling over it. I often wondered what that 
secret was. 

A summer came when Mrs. Peel brought me 
the chickens and the hens. I did not see her 
but, in the kitchen, she dropped the laconic re¬ 
mark: “He’s dead.” This was the only time 
she ever mentioned him, but from the villagers 
I learned a little more about him. He had 
lived, summer and winter, in his little shanty, 
with only a kerosene stove for cooking and 
heating. His chickens ran in and out during 
the summer and, if one were ill during the win- 
7 1 


ter, he took it in and warmed and tended it. 
Early one bitterly cold morning, neighbours 
saw flames in the direction of his hut, but they 
reached it too late. Underneath the embers 
they found what was left of Mr. Peel. Then 
they told me that Mrs. Peel had a tidy sum 
put away and wouldn’t let him get hold of it, 
but did let him use her horse and buggy, and 
often drove him to and from his customers. 
Perhaps this was the secret that he chuckled 
over. It may have pleased him to give me 
the impression that he was conferring the 
favours. 

When next I saw Mrs. Peel, the faded lilacs 
on her hat had been replaced by a new black 
bow, and I thought she appeared a little less 
aggressive. 


72 


ZACHARIAH JONES 


As we stepped into the rowboat, I looked out 
over the lake; apple-green it was, without a 
ripple, and crossed from shore to shore with 
broad bands of purple. On the closely- 
wooded shores the trees seemed wrapped in a 
haze of mauve', while those along the hill-tops 
seemed quite black. Only the open fields were 
green, except where the ripened grain stood in 
great golden patches. Above, great masses of 
fleecy white clouds floated in the clear blue sky. 

“What does it matter if the fish don’t bite 
on such a day as this!” I said to my small son 
William. 

“But the fish gotta bite,” said Zachariah 
Jones. “See this minner*?” holding up a lively 
chub with which he deftly baited my hook. 

“Why, yes. What splendid bait you have 
to-day!” 


73 


“Yep. Caught’m down stream. Fished all 
night for’m. Hed ter ketch ev’ry one on hook. 
Water too high ter use net. Nebber got home 
till four ’clock’n mornin’.” 

“Well, you didn’t have much time to sleep, 
did you 4 ?” 

“Sleep? Fer two hours? That’d just been 
a ’naggravation. Nope. Routed th’ old 
woman out’n made her hoe pertaters with me 
till time get breakfus’.” 

Zack, as he was commonly called, never used 
two syllables where one would do. He had 
an impediment in his speech. Some might say 
it was a hare-lip; but it wasn’t a hare-lip. 
Others might say he was tongue-tied; but he 
wasn’t tongue-tied. He had an impediment 
in his speech, and without this impediment, 
Zack would not have been Zack. 

Zack skilfully cast the minnow, then turned 
to bait the other hook. For years he had been 
our fishing companion. I had watched him 
grow from childhood to boyhood, from youth 
to manhood. He took an interest in the entire 
family, and had taught the boys to fish and 
74 


shoot. What happy hours we spent listening 
to Zack’s tales of fishing and hunting; and how 
the children’s eyes bulged until they realized 
that Zack’s stories were never meant to be be¬ 
lieved ! Their sole purpose was to amuse. 
No work was too hard for Zack and his 
brothers. They trapped muskrats and sold 
the skins; caught whitefish through the ice; 
shot ducks, partridges and prairie chickens; 
chopped down trees and sawed them into fire¬ 
wood. This they did for a livelihood during 
the winter. During the summer they subsisted 
on fish—and us. They were boys of fine 
habits, and their speech, though uncouth, was 
never unclean. In his youth Zack was lean, 
but strong and sinewy. He had a shambling 
gait; his shoes looked roomy enough for two 
pairs of feet. He was indescribably awkward, 
always choosing the most difficult way to 
achieve his object. He would jump from the 
launch into a rowboat, land upon a loose cush¬ 
ion on the seat, and fall sprawling to the floor. 
He was always the first to reach shore. 
Usually, in his haste, he would clamber up the 
75 


bank with his arms full of packages, and, the 
loose soil giving way beneath him, would fall 
back on the beach almost covered with sand, 
pebbles, cooking-utensils, etc. His hands were 
usually ornamented with strips of adhesive 
plaster. Zack always fished in his shirt-sleeves 
and vest, in every sort of weather. His vest 
pockets were full of fishhooks and guimps, 
while his trousers’ pockets bulged with knives, 
wires, strings, and even live frogs, which he 
sometimes used for bait. 

Silence reigned for some time, broken only 
by the thud of the minnow as the line was cast, 
or the swish as we pulled it through the water. 
Suddenly, a rapt expression on Zack’s face 
drew my attention to Will. 

“That’s a fish sure,” said Zack. “Give’m 
plenty o’ line. Steady, steady! Now jerk’m! 
“Don’t give’m no slack. Keep’m com’n. 
Keep’m com’n.” 

Will’s face was flushed as he rapidly pulled 
the line in, hand over hand. 

‘'There! Let’m run—give’m line. Hold’m 

76 


steady now er he’ll fool yer. Fish knows more 
’bout boys’n boys knows about fish. Soon’s he 
stops runnin’, pull’m in quick!” 

Will obeyed implicitly. The fish appeared 
on top of the water. 

“Keep’m cornin’. Keep’m cornin’,” in great 
excitement; and Zack’s huge brown hand shot 
out and grabbed the fish. He proceeded to 
extract the hook with a running commentary: 
“Fine fish, Bill. Yer landed’m cause yer done 
jest what I tole yer. What d’ye think hap¬ 
pened th’ other mornin’*? I was woke up by 
’norful noise in my curcumber patch. Went 
down there’n foun’ two pick’rel, fatter’n this’n, 
layin’ on ther sides dead . They’d et up mos’ 
all my curcumbers’n jes’ rolled over’n died 
with indergestion.” 

Although this was said in the most serious 
manner imaginable, it brought the never-failing 
laugh with which Will greeted all Zack’s 
stories. Zack smiled contentedly and went on 
with his work. 

A sudden breeze brought the white-caps 

77 



dancing about us, and I looked up to find the 
white clouds turned to grey and purple and the 
trees rustling and quivering. 

“Storm’s cornin’,” said Zack, “ov’r Bram- 
leigh way—cornin’ pret’ fast. ’Mos’ dinn’r 
time, en’way. Bett’ go in.” Without a by- 
your-leave he lifted the anchor and rowed to 
shore. 

Zack was a famous cook; he took great pride 
in dressing the fish and cooking them over a 
glowing bonfire, always giving us the benefit 
of his comments: “See that knife 4 ? Ain’t 
none like it. Bes’ steel, sharp’s razor. Don’t 
lend that t’ nobody. Nope. Takes skin off ’n 
leaves fish jes’ like shinin’ silver. See 4 ?” He 
held the fish in his hand underneath the water. 
It did gleam like silver. 

Usually Zack preferred to eat the cold meat 
which we brought along. One day we had a 
particularly fine piece of rare roast beef. See¬ 
ing him heap his plate with fish, I said: 
4 ‘Zack, why don’t you take a piece of the roast 
beef 4 ?” 

“When I want m’ meat raw ,” was the scorn- 

78 


ful reply, ‘Til eat it right off’n th’ block.” 

He took a keen interest in all that went on; 
sometimes even joining in the conversation 
as he passed the coffee, fish, potatoes and corn: 
“Yer corn aint’s good’s las’ year. Nex’ week 
I’ll bring yer some’r mine. That's corn "; or 
“We miss Dor’thy this year. Couldn’t she eat 
more corn’n en’one yer ever seen*?” with a 
laugh; or “Say, Mis’ Leslie oughter be here. 
Gee! wasn’t ’t funny when she nearly fell in 
aft’r that fish sh’ lost?” 

One day we were discussing my cousin, who 
was coming to make us a visit. Bob was an 
ardent fisherman and had fished many times 
with Zack. Zack listened with a satisfied 
smile, but made no comments until after 
luncheon. Then, as we began to fish, he com¬ 
menced: “I’m orful glad Bob’s cornin’. Like 
Bob; he ain’t like some er them city fellers,” 
in a tone of contempt, “thinks they knows it 
all! Why, some of ’em comes up here’n thinks 
all they gotter do’s jus’ throw minner in th’ 
water to ketch fish; just like it was wheat pit 
where all the yaps’r waitin’ to take hook. It’s 

79 


harder to ketch fish’n to make money. Bob’s 
diff’rent.” 

“Zack,” said my small boy, who was par¬ 
ticularly strong on the proprieties, “don’t you 
think it would be better to call him Mr. Mans¬ 
field instead of Bob?” 

A look of astonishment passed over Zack’s 
face: “Mitta Man’field! Mitta Man’field! 
Why would I call him Mitta Man’field? No¬ 
body nebber call me Mitta Jones.” 

He was quick to do a kindly deed for those 
he liked. He overheard me say, one day, that 
I had seen a beautiful red honeysuckle and 
wanted one for my wild-flower garden. 

“Tell me where’t is ’n I’ll get it for yer.” 

“But you can’t. It is growing on the fence 
at Cedar Crest Farm.” 

“Huh, yer show me where ’tis ’n when Mitta 
Cedar Crest gets up’n mornin’, he won’t fin’ 
nuttin’ but hole in ground.” I did not de¬ 
scribe the location, but a week later he brought 
me a fine red honeysuckle. 

The natives watched us with observant eyes. 
Any feeling of superiority which they thought 
80 


they detected in a “summerer” was fatal to 
that “summerer’s” happiness. Here, as in 
most American hamlets, each person thought 
everybody was just as good as anybody else and 
perhaps he was a little better. “Them sum- 
merers is all right,” they were fond of saying, 
“s’long’s they don’t put on no airs with us.” 

One autumn morning a neighbour’s barn 
burned down, and I said to Zack: “A pity, 
wasn’t it?” 

“Yep,” in an indifferent tone. 

“How do you think it happened?” 

“Well, I do’ wanta say nuttin’ ’gainst Mitta 
Mawton, but he tried to sell th’ place; had 
lot of ’surance on it’n—well, I do’ wanta 
say nuttin’ ’gainst Mitta Mawton but,” and 
now he seemed almost to explode in his excite¬ 
ment, “if that’d a happened to me Vd a bin in 
penitentiary ’fore now” 

Some years before we were amazed to learn, 
upon our arrival, that Zack had married. I 
cannot tell why it seemed so indescribably 
funny to us; but marriage had never entered 
into our scheme of life for him. But so it was. 

8l 


Zachariah Jones was married. We recalled 
his superior attitude when his brother had mar¬ 
ried the preceding year. 

“Suppose you’ll be the next to go,” I had’ 
said to him. 

“Nope. When a man’s single he does what 
he wants. When he’s married he can’t do nut- 
tin’.” So we chaffed him. 

“Zack, I hear you’re married.” 

“Yep.” - 

“How do you like it 4 ?” 

“I dunno.” 

“You don’t know*? How strange!” 

“Well, I nebber bin inside church ’n all m* 
life till I got married. Hed t’ go t’ church t’ 
get married. Nebber had doctor’n m’ life till 
I got married, ’n ’en got sick, hed t’ have doc¬ 
tor.” It was a long speech for Zack, and he 
kept on muttering something that sounded like 
“Dunno whether like it’r not.” 

“Cheer up, Zack. Better times are coming. 
You look well-fed. The wife must be a good 
cook.” 

“Yep,” and he lapsed into silence. He did 
82 


look well-fed, and prosperous, for he had not 
only put on flesh, but he had a gleaming gold 
front tooth. But much of his cheerfulness and 
ready humour were gone. 

“What is the matter, Zack*?” I said to him 
very seriously. 

“Nuttin”; then after a long pause, “Can’t 
sleep. Lay ’wake nights thinkin’! Nebber 
did that afore. Bein’ married’s nuff to make a 
feller think.” But I wasn’t satisfied. I won¬ 
dered if they got along well, what his thoughts 
were, and how he looked on life. I missed 
the frank and ready smile of my fishing 
companion. 

Another year passed and the first bit of news 
we received on returning to the country was 
that Zack had a bouncing boy several months 
old. 

“Fine boy,” he said, “Yes, sir! Named 
’m fer Bill, ’cause he’s finest boy I know. 
Willum Man’field Junior Jones. But I tell 
ye, I mos’ lost th’ old woman. Why I couldn’t 
eat ’r sleep las’ summer. Sure thought she was 
er goin’ to die.” After that Zack expanded. 

83 


“Yep. Th’ old woman cooks good ’s me. 
Keeps th’ house good too. Y’ought t’ see 
how clean she keeps th’ boy, an’ I don’ care if 
sh’ does bring’m up t’ go t’ church.” Then, 
“Say, I gonna take yer to th’ head er the lake 
’n show yer where them red-wing blackbirds 
builds their nests. Ever seen ’em? Jest 
’bove th’ water on th’ reeds en’ they rocks jes’ 
like a baby’s cradle.” 

Now Zack’s ambition seems to be realized, 
for “Willum Man’field Junior Jones” is guide 
and fisherman. He is more taciturn than his 
father, but, as Zack says, “Times is changed ’n 
people isn’t what they used to be.” 


84 


$ 




s 









* 








1 






p 


» 





4 




* 


0 










i 
























^ f * o A w 8 

• % 4? 'V ^ 

v^r 4 M°. « 

* A ^ -• *§ 8 iii 3 §? o A A 

* ♦* ^ •; 



► °*^^rS> v * a.v 'T, - x 'Wiuxr <% 

<* < 0 ^ \b ^:ls^ A <v 6 1 

* v '.* * ^ ' > 0 r o 0 " 9 * ^o a> V .«•'»* 





^O 1 

/ A 1 °<* 

• -oj* c* 

*M 0 9 / O * • , 

' % llHf' ^ ‘'o..-‘ 0^' \ A. ^ 

° or *V^i’ ^ c° Asst*!* °o A- * 

f /Vv- 

" ^ ■ * ■ v\^°v' 1 ’ * ■ 





; ^ 
° A Vr V * 


<rt ^ O 

^ ■oMVvw' n kv ^ «. 

ri*. <» S 'X^Vi^~« /I r ^ «. 

<£> * O * o 0 ^ O ♦ 

f « k r- A y 





’V : . 

M ^ V * * * J a\^ N«* “ * * A v ^ ' • • * 

0 ♦ O « l f * A <£ ., fN v 0*0 

' •■> ^ sLsrteZ* +. cP ♦‘‘JW % ° 

^ v* .' 



^0 

J ,. <?> ^i«’* C °^. ,i ^‘ j r^ ^°" % 

L *° ,V N ^ Ap v *^w*% " 

\^ /JlSil\ % j 

\°wa^ ^ ^ •3vS®i* ^ 

* a .. * ty 

^ « * ' * * Vi 

V, . 

A 0 s « -'^\MI[A*» -• “-■ ■ --^ - • 5 ’- 




V'-**‘\'‘^’7 <,’-'5 r .r«* 6-^ 

* ♦ ^ /• Or C ° V* ♦ ^o A^ , V » # <$> /A 0 M 0 

»■ * w 0 O A—,/*'*?-, f *r (*, u 0 

* y£> A V <5^v\\u^ A^ * &<U/S?r> -rsr. v 




• 

,, y,-.A‘'''’ /. 

.A /jA^a*. .'> 





* «> 




^ o' 

; . 

. .,.’ ^ *%.“*• A 

'+ •> A y - * - K - 



i 1 !.* 0 -* O. 







V 4 

/% 

* * * ‘ * V*” ^ > 

-Or c°" a * A& • 1 ' * ♦ 

0 • *«SSW^ o vl^ *Vw7?^ * 

* ^> 4 

s - V* CT 


1 °, 



* «bv* 



^ %• 

‘ o*°..-.. °*o '**' 

v * . O 




4°-n«- A°* 

O *■ '~ Z T'y/lP<& * O 0* Tfcv\l\\V^» % \ V 

V * * ■ 1 * >°, • • • S> ° • ° V*.. •.. V * - *' 0 *°. 

• \/ :^tk\ V./ 


6 V 


4 °'^ 





' 0.4 



A V V 


a .>v 


a v-* 

♦ ^ ^ 



WERT 
BOOKBINDING 
Grapfville, Pa. 
Nov.Dec. 1988 

*V«>e Quality m>und 


’’oK . - '^o 1 




❖ 


<0^ *1^1% , t • O 

K\ ^ A^ ♦>« 


























































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































